


Rounded Edges

by RyMagnatar



Series: EriDave same AU collection [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, help me i can't stop writing about them D:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The troll that comes to your door is not the one that you expect, from all the things you've heard about him. One chance leads to so many more until you're stuck wanting to know more and he's resisting. You'll get the truth out of him somehow, though.<br/>But in the end you always want more than the truth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rounded Edges

**Author's Note:**

> CANT STOP  
> WONT STOP  
> (basically my mantra while i pound out these fics holy crap)

When you see Eridan Ampora, the legendarily desperate sea troll, you expect a pointy edged creature with a sharp chin, sharp eyes, all quick gestures, angry seething words and desperation to form a cloud around him like too much perfume. What you get instead, when you open up the door to your shitty apartment is this grey skinned, purple eyed creature that is doing a pretty damn good impersonation of a smoothed out pebble.

He isn’t hard on the eyes at all, _God_ no, he’s actually pretty good on the eyes. You’ve dated your share of trolls and they are usually angular faces and sharpened claws and snarly, needle like teeth but he’s not like that. He’s been beaten down by words, by actions, by _everyone_ \- you’ve heard the horror stories on how he was obsessed with Fish Princess Feferi and he was desperate enough even to try Karkat after the troll expressed an interest in your best bro John. He’s smirking when you open the door wearing just the wife beater and some jeans and with your video game paused on the TV but you can see that his smug look is just a look and there’s almost no life to it in his bright, shining purple eyes.

(You take a moment to make a note to look up something better than shitty, all encompassing _purple_ to describe his eyes because they’re actually unlike any purple you’ve seen before and he may or may not have nearly been covered in it.)

When he asks you out on a date for that Saturday, you look him over, one more time, and you say yes.

He can’t completely contain the sheer shock of your acceptance. He licks his lips a little nervously, eyes flickering just a little wider and sucking in a quick breath. He wants to take you out on this thing called a “Daydate”. That sounds just ironic enough for you to nod your head and agree to go out with him at noon. He flicks you a little smile that shows you his teeth are still needle sharp and you’re kind of surprised at that.

You check out his ass as he walks away and then shut the door. You stare at the wood of your front door, stuck in thought for a moment, trying to figure out why you’re shaking.

You have this surge of unexpected anger through your body, trembling through you like the shakes you get when you are wrapped up in a blanket except for your damn hands because you’re trying to play a game or clack away on your computer, when your hands are freezing cold and send shivers down your spine, little quivers shuddering across your body. You think about how he looked so beaten down and suck in a sharp breath. You find that you’re angry at all the little shitheads that he threw himself at and you’re angry at him for throwing himself at them so many times that he looks so soft.

You stomp back to the couch and put on your headset and get back into the game. You’re so caught up in your anger you accidentally kill John’s dude and have to apologize while he pesters you about it for at least an hour.

When you’ve finally calmed down you’ve decided this will be the best fucking daydate ever, because he won’t expect that and neither will any of the others.

……

He shows up fifteen minutes early, wearing an honest to god silk purple vest over a button down shirt and some dark jeans that show off some pretty fine legs. Once you catch a look at him you tell him you’ve got to change and you pull out one of your red shirts you wear on fancier occasions. Your black jeans do just fine though and you can feel his gaze on you more than it is on your weirdly decorated apartment. He doesn’t say much about the swords, or anything, actually, but you can tell he wants too. He looks like he’s practically chewing on his tongue in order to not say anything- like he’s learned to keep his mouth shut but it’s something he hates.

He walks you to his car. You were expecting something small and electric or, the ironic inverse of big and gas guzzling, but it’s just one of those semi-hybrid eco shits that are actually pretty sweet. It’s also in a deep kind of sparkly purple that screams expensive douche, but it really kind of suits him. He drives okay, muttering under his breath at assholes that cut him off, and lets you control the radio station.

You let the saccharine sound of pop music fill the car as you watch him. His lips are pressed into a thin line when he’s not thinking about his expression and he taps out the rhythm of the song with his thumb on the steering wheel. Each motion makes the light dance across the golden ring on his finger. He’s only got two on, you’ve heard he used to wear them on each finger, one on his left thumb and the other on his right index finger. Whoever made him reduce how many rings he wore couldn’t get him to budge on those two. You wonder who they were. You wonder why not those two. You wonder why you care.

He parks the car in the lot by a park you never go to and gets out a small cooler and a blanket from the trunk. You quirk an eyebrow at him and he just looks at you and shrugs a shoulder. “It’s a nice day out, figured we could stay outside,” that outrageous accent you’ve heard about is definitely gone, smoothed out so you don’t hear the faintest warble of extended w’s or v’s. You wonder who made him butcher his own voice.

He leads you into the park, blanket in arm and cooler in hand. There are people running around, playing with kites or Frisbee’s. Parents with their kids, other couples, people with their pets, even a college study group sprawled around on the grass and not doing much looking at books, litter the park. He keeps walking past all of them and then finally up a hill. He stops at the top, where a large tree is. You look up, not the least bit surprised that it’s got flowers all up and down the branches. You wonder if he chose this place because it was so ironically sappy or because he really is that romantic. You catch him watching you look up at the tree and you wonder if he’s catering to your twisted sense of irony. You kind of hope he isn’t.

You don’t want to grind away any more of his edges than are already gone.

He lays out the blanket, sets the cooler in the middle. You lounge on one side, propped up on one elbow and legs stretched out. He relaxes perpendicular to you, your heads near each other as he pulls out the first food from the cooler; a container of grapes.

You pick at them, not really hungry, but enjoying watching him as he eats them. He’s fastidious. He picks at the skin first with his teeth, peeling it back and eating it. Then he runs his tongue over droplets of juice from the fruit. Finally he bites it in half and then the rest of it. After a handful of grapes are eaten by you both, you reach over and touch his chin.

All you do is slide your finger under and your thumb across and those bright eyes of his are locked onto your face. You lean in and press a kiss to his mouth. He isn’t at all hesitant in returning it, just slow. His eyes close behind those glasses but you keep yours open to watch his face. He doesn’t reach up to you, but his hand slides across the cloth towards you before curling into a tight fist. You push into the kiss, force him down onto his back just from pushing on his chin.

He opens his mouth to you, slides his tongue against yours, keeps your tongue from getting cut on his teeth, and makes this wet sort of panting noise. You kiss him into the blanket, your body as far away from his as it possibly could be, the only connection between your hot mouths and your fingertips on his face. He shudders when you run soft fingers over his little face fins and moans when you bite and suck on his lower lip.

When you pull back, slowly, sucking in deep breaths, you take back your hand as well. He lays there for a moment, eyes shut and panting softly. You notice that his breaths make the thin gills, pressed close on his neck, flutter. After a while he sits up and opens the cooler again. When he passes you the bottle of apple juice you know there is no way in hell he isn’t catering to you and you decide then that he will get a second date- if he asks for it.

…………….

You give him that second date. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then a fifth.

In the course of the next three months you spend every Saturday with him, and each time you figure you’ve exhausted whatever idea he has but he comes up with something. (Your favorite one was when he insisted you dress really fancy and the two of you went joyriding in cars from dealerships and then he drove you to the opposite side of town, treated you to the fanciest dinner you’ve ever had, and the pair of you pretended to be different people the whole time.) But he never comes to the club you play at.

When the time comes for you to head to work and for him to part ways with you, you ask him to come with you.

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them or even think about them, which surprises you.

What surprises you more, though, is how he turns you down.

He’s been so cooperative, so available to chat with during the week, even willing to move your usual Saturday date to a weekday so you could spend time with John instead, that his refusal catches you off guard. So you ask him why.

He just gives this little shrug and his lips do that quirk of a smile that makes you think he’s two blinks from crying and says he’s busy. He has stuff to do. He has other plans.

You refuse to admit the way that makes you feel. You ask instead if he’ll come Sunday night and he says if he can manage to, he will.

You part ways at your shitty apartment. (You’ve yet to see where he lives.) You kiss him into your door and he lets you while grabbing fistfuls of your shirt and making those soft little moans for you. As you get ready for work that night, you find yourself a little surprised as you realize you haven’t even seen him with his shirt off yet. The pair of you have been going out weekly for three months and the most you’ve done is kiss.

You wonder if he’s waiting to take his cue from you or just too afraid to push for more. Yet you know him a little better now.

You think it’s more along the lines that he doesn’t want to ruin anything between you. The way he melts under your touches, the slight stiffen if you begin to slide your hands down his front, and how he can kiss you for hours without seeming to care about time or doing more tells you this. As you shower, one hand resting against the cold tile and the other taking care of your growing arousal, you wonder if he’s gotten this far with someone before only to go a step further and have it fall apart under his touch. He has a weird sense about that, this weird belief that things break around him, for him, because of him.

You wonder if he thinks that the two of you won’t last much longer.

…………………

Sunday, just before you head out to the club, you get a text on your phone in Ampora’s purple script.

_i can make it to the club tonight  
i wwill see you there?_

You lick your lips and type out a simple response.

_cant wait to see what youll be wearing_

Then you pack the last of your shit into the truck your Bro left you and head out.

The club is almost always the same. You plug in your modified gear, better than the shit they have for any other DJ, and you put the headphones around your neck. You look out over the room, still half empty, the floor gleaming under the neon lights along the walls and the dark bodies moving with glittering glasses in hand and sparkle on their skin. Your gaze moves over them, not seeing them, looking through them. There are a few heads with horns in there and there will be more by the end of the night. You are the best you know at mixing Earth and Alternian and they know it too.

The records are a familiar texture under your fingers. You crack your knuckles, pull the headphone over one ear and bend to your work, just working up the crowd, beginning the night. You have to think about keeping your gaze down, otherwise you’ll be up and looking through the crowd too much. People get ideas if you keep looking up at them.

The night begins as you start your first mix, your mind bending to make the music and filling the world with your mad as fuck skills.

Hours slip past as you sip beer and spin records and smirk to yourself. You take a moment to wet your throat, looking up, sweeping your protected red gaze over the room, allowing yourself to search. First you look at the mass of dancers. Then you look to the tables on the left side and then the booths on the right. A flash of purple and black and orange catch your eye, but it’s some human girl with fucked up neon purple hair making out with a troll.

Finally you look to the bar and there he sits, perched on a stool with a drink held between two fingers. You don’t have to be right next to him to feel that air of _fuck off_ that screams from every line of his body. His shoulders are squared, his legs crossed at the knee and he looks bored as he swirls the ice in his glass and sips from it. From across the room, you can’t see his features perfectly, but you don’t need to. His lips will be slightly turned down, his brows furrowed, his nails- filed down to human like roundness, a trait you’ve _never_ seen in a troll before- tapping on the table. You think maybe he didn’t want to come that he was resistant. You wanted to see him dance to your music.

He leans in, gets a refill, sips his glass. Then he turns and looks right at you. You let your eyes roll over his body, dip your chin down slightly so he knows you’re looking him over. Remarkably, he doesn’t blush under the attention, no instead he shifts so you can see his tight shirt, his tight pants.

He wears that for you but he won’t dance? You arch an eyebrow.

He knocks back the drink, puts it on the counter and slides from the stool. You like how he can read you, even though it makes you feel nakedly vulnerable. His eyes say _sure I’ll dance for you, Dave_ as he walks to the center of the dance floor. He’s under the pulsating red and blue and yellow light. He looks up at you and begins to dance.

Suddenly you want him to do anything _but_ dance.

Your fingers work automatically as you dip your head down to focus, beer forgotten on the chair you don’t use. He’s moving with the crowd, swaying, grinding, hands moving, head back, dancing. Your music is doing this to him, but he’s not alone there. You bite the inside of your cheek because you won’t tell him to stop doing what he’s only doing because of you, and you play.

He moves to and from the dancefloor on his own. Sometimes someone pulls him closer but he always keeps just a little distance. He doesn’t try to make you jealous and you, in turn, don’t grind out too fast, angry music while glaring down his dance partners. Hours pass by, it gets later and later and later.

Last call goes up. You put on your Final Moments record to wind the club down and end the night with your signature music.

You reach for your drink but it’s empty. Before you can wave someone down for another bottle, there are footsteps up the stairs to the stage and you’re face to face with that tuft of stupid purple on black and a smile full of needle teeth. You take the drink he offers, not your shitty beer but one of the nicer brands that costs more. You roll your eyes at him and drink anyway. He leans a hip on the table and says, “You’re pretty fuckin’ good at all this, you knoww.” It’s the first time you’ve really heard his accent and you find yourself chuckling. Does he really sound like that normally? Shit, it was actually kind of cute the way his voice wavered over those W’s.

“Of course I am. I’m Dave motherfucking Strider.” You reach out with your empty hand and loop your fingers into his belt loops. You drag him closer, give him a slow kiss that he, predictably, melts into. He smells like sweat and booze and that weird cologne he uses. And sea salt. He smells like the ocean, stronger now than he ever has before. He kind of tastes like it too.

“You are goin’ to break a lotta hearts, Davve motherfuckin’ Strider,” he whispers against your lips, “Kissin’ some stranger up here in your booth.”

“Why do you taste like the ocean?” You don’t care if people see you. Ampora doesn’t need to know you kiss people up here all the time. No one gives a damn.

“Wwork.” Is his only reply, then he’s kissing you again. His rounded nails move down your cheek to your jaw and he strokes your skin with his fingertips.

“I want to know about it,” you press. “I want to know more about you.” You’re drunk. That’s why these words are coming out of your mouth. “I want to know where you live and what you do and who you talk to.” _You are edging close to Boyfriend territory, Strider. Back that shit up right the fuck now._ “I want to know more about you than I can see one day a week, Eridan.” _Are you even listening to yourself. What the hell are you even fucking saying to him oh shit he’s pulling away._

He is pulling away. He’s giving you that smile that doesn’t touch his eyes at all the right way and he’s saying something shitty you can _not_ believe. “No you really don’t, Dave.” He shakes his head, just a little, taking his hand from your face, “And if you wwant us to stay us then you wwont ask for more than that day.” God _damn_ his voice is doing that bleeding sound you remember from that one time he got a phone call and left the room to answer it and you found him trying not to cry afterwards as he tried to talk to you without sounding like he hated himself so much it was a monster twisting inside his body, digesting his guts so it could be drained out of him and sold in some black magic shop for a fatal poison.

“Why the fuck is asking for more time with you such a goddamn deal breaker?” You can’t help but feel a little pissed and the booze isn’t help keeping it inside. “What the fuck are you hiding from me?”

His mournful gaze just looks a little wry as he tilts his head to the side and says like it’s the most fucking obvious thing in the world, “Wwhy, me, a’course.”

You put the bottle down harder than you intend and grab him by the front of his stupid little shirt and you shake him and say with a hot breath, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to get at you asshole! I want to know more about you! What the fuck is there that’s so fucking nasty or dark or whatever that you got to hide it?”

He closes eyes and when he begins to talk it sounds for all the world like he’s reading off ingredients on a box of cereal except these are facts about _him_. He’s talking about himself in this list of shit in the flattest tone you’ve ever heard him adopt. “I’m a racist, bloodist, douche wwith too much fuckin’ money to knoww wwhat to do wwith it all. I say shit like pissblood, mudblood, dirtblood and lowwblood wwithout any consideration for anybody else’s feelin’s. I wwear clothin’ that makes me look like the tool I am, from places that no one I knoww actually shops from but me ‘cause the prices are so fuckin’ insane. I think I’m better’n any asshole out there and don’t fuckin’ care wwhat they think about it. I rub my good luck in people’s faces wwhile bemoanin’ my existence like it’s some sorta fuckin’ television drama. Evvery fuckin’ thin’ I do is a big glubbin’ deal and I havven’t got shit for brains ‘cause all I do is fuck around in my fancy fuckin’ house in my fancy fuckin’ clothes wwhinin’ and bitchin’ about bein’ friendless and unlovved because _clearly_ my romantic feelin’s are the only fuckin’ things that matter in the wwhole damn wworld and Strider wwhy the _fuck_ are you starin’ at me like that you prick.”

Your mouth is hanging open, just a little, just enough to show the shock you feel. You snap it shut and then shake your head, slowly, thinking quickly in your drunk head. “Shut the fuck up, Ampora.” You retaliate last name for last name and you drag him in for a kiss. You bite his lip and fuck it all instead of melting like he usually does he nips back, pushes against you, his fingers gripping your shoulder. You drag your head back after you feel the sting of his teeth a little too sharply and you run your tongue over your lip.

You shake him, again, as you say, “The only fucking thing I agree with from all that shit you said is that you do have shit for brains. You stupid brainless _fuck_. Do you really think I’d shove you off for any of that false shit?”

“False sh- Davve wwhat are you sayin’ all that is true, okay. People been sayin’ that to me for fuckin’ _forevver_.”

You glare at him but he doesn’t get the force of it through your glasses. You tilt them down your nose, narrow your gaze and you glare him down until he stares back at you with a muted, somewhat scared expression. “Eridan, you listen to me right now because I am only ever going to say this _once_. Do you understand? The words that are about to drop from my lips like pieces of gold and diamond are going to be so damn precious and so damn true that if you don’t hurry up and scoop them up and treasure them in your damn head, so help me I will throttle you until you are a catatonic vegetable laying in a hospital bed where some nurse has to dab the spit from your chin.”

He nods his head, slowly, eyes wide.

“You are not so damn selfish as you think. You’ve spent at least three months getting on my good side by doing shit to entertain me, to make me feel good, to give up your time, your _self_ to do what I want. Sure you have money so you get nice clothes. Maybe you are pretty fine off besides your emotional shit. You’ve not once said any of those derogatory things around me in these three months so you are not as fucking insensitive as you think.” You look at him, red eyes boring into his beautiful purple ones. God, you _love_ those bright eyes. The way they shine even in low light, the way the pupils contract, the way he doesn’t need to blink as much as you because he’s a damn fishtroll.

“All that crap you said sounds an awful lot like shit other people have said to you so many times it starts sounding like truth. Well I, Dave motherfucking Strider, have got my own two bits to add to that litany of bullshit.” You can feel him suck in his breath. He’s just staring at you, open mouthed and wide eyed and _staring_ , drinking up your words like you are giving him his first unpolluted drink of water in his damn life. There’s a sickness coiling in your gut that maybe you _are_ and that just makes you want to vomit, thinking that he’s really been so mindlessly beaten down to see your stupid ass words in such glorious light.

“Eridan Ampora,” your voice drops, just a little and you end in a whisper, “I don’t give one single fuck about anything anyone else says about you. I want to know you better. I want to figure you out _on my own_. The only person who is keeping me from you is you and I am determined as all hell to see past this shiny little exterior you put on display for me. If I wanted someone to appease and please me, I could get anyone in this whole damn building to do that. I want to know if _you_ are more than just a pleaser. I _need_ to know that.”

He lets out a shaky breath. He looks down, nods his head just a little. You feel glad that he gives in but at the same time it pisses you off to have him surrender.

But then his head pops up and he glares hard at you and snaps, “Fine. You wwant to knoww more shit, good. But can wwe get the fuck out of here? I pulled twwo all nighters so I could fuck off from wwork tonight to see you. Make it wworth my wwhile, Strider.”

You pull him into a breath stealing kiss, smirking against his lips. He bites your mouth but succumbs, grumbling. You break the kiss long enough to say, “Can I finally get to see your place?”

“Fuck no,” he growls, twisting his hand in your shirt, “I havven’t cleaned the fuckin’ place in wweeks. I’ll take you later on.”

You roll your eyes, glasses back in place, and decide talking time is definitely over. You have a brand new Eridan to start exploring and it is going to be the best fucking thing you’ve gotten to figure out in years.

………………………………………..

In the next six months, you discover that under that beaten down exterior, Eridan Ampora somehow managed to salvage his sharp edged troll personality.

His favorite fruit is pomegranate, because he likes to work for each and every juicy bright red kernel. He starts wearing scarves again, tucked loose and protective around his chin and neck gills. He hates direct airflow over his gills because it dries them out. He came to live in Texas because of work, and stayed for the weather, the ocean and the people.

His co-workers are  _all complete nerds_. Every single one of them. They’re skinny spindly things and chunky bearded ones that are predominantly human and go to conventions and like sci-fi shit and actually discuss physics at dinner. And Eridan can keep up with them easily. He went to a human college that he still talks about actively. He's proud of his human college, and has human friends through it. He did do Alternian training for a handful of years, but didn't enjoy it nearly as much. He spent the majority of the time training and basically bed hopping. The result of it all was that he did better with humans than trolls and had a reputation in certain troll circles as a good and easy lay.

 

He thinks all movies are generally shitty but will curl up all day around the same book, forgetting food, sleep, and work, everything just for one more page. His taste in music is indiscriminate. He tends to favor one thing over another for a month at a time and then, when you pull the headphones from his ears and expect to hear classical you’ll get an earful of deep soulful jazz that you have no idea where it came from. He likes to keep the TV on, or the radio, with the volume just loud enough for there to be noise.

His apartment is somehow shittier than yours. The kitchen his half the size of yours and he eats a lot of his food raw (fruits, veggies, meat, all of it) because he has no stove. He has one bathroom, one bedroom and the tiny amount of space left is where he’s wedged his table that he uses to eat on and as a desk. And it’s spotless, _all the time._ At first you think it’s because he’s just a fucking neat freak, but when you come over and he’s fiddling around, trying to pick up papers stacked neatly and move them to another stack, you notice it’s just empty. (You were right about him wanting to talk about the swords. He likes weapons so he’ll talk about them. He also apparently wants to use the fridge. It is a long weekend before the two of you come to an agreement. You now have a black secondary min-fridge chock full of swords and only three in the regular fridge.)

He spends his money on his car, his hair, his body, his clothing, on you, but he doesn’t collect things. There’s no pile of toys or clothes or what-have-you that all of your other troll friends have. He does have a normal human bed piled with pillows, so that might count, but a lot of them have weird tears in them.

He likes to shop. _God,_ does he like to shop. He doesn’t make you throw out your own clothes, but when he gets a bonus he begs you to let him take you out and you give in. He buys you fine ass suits, actually tailored to fit, sweet shoes, even a damn pair of cufflinks. You say no to anymore jewelry and he whines about it for a good two minutes before he shuts himself up. You hate the way he does that so you have him take you to look at the baubles anyway.

You expect high end jewelry but he just takes you to a thrift store. He’s so picky he buys only one ring, though he lingers over a weird, colorful fish pin. He doesn’t buy it, though, and you don’t have to wonder why. It was the same bright magenta color of Feferi’s blood.

When he gets angry, he seethes. Other trolls shout or growl or hit things. He glares with his fists clenched so tight if his claws weren’t filed down they would cut his skin. He clenches his jaw, he doesn’t blink, and he talks low, fast, his accent pouring over his words as he spits out the words, but he doesn’t move an inch. The only people he gets that mad about, mad to, mad over, are the other trolls from the game. Sollux, in particular, gets him riled up the most. Karkat’s pretty good at it too. In general, he is sullenly silent about them. He never brings them up on his own and he avoids the parts of town where he knows they are (and you do too so you can tell).

He’s surprisingly skittish. You’re ready to have sex about a month after the first time he comes to the club. (He starts coming at least once every weekend. Sometimes he brings his co-workers, you laugh at the way they are at first so uncomfortable in themselves, in being there, but he coaxes them with alcohol and dancing that they enjoy themselves. He’s kind to them, kinder than the others would say he ever could be.) But he won’t do it.

He doesn’t cock-tease you too badly, but it never goes past shirts being taken off. (Even that was a trial itself. It turns out he was reminded of everything in his past because of the damn scar around his waist where he was sawed in half. You think it looks kind of badass. It takes him two weeks before he lets you touch it and then you kiss it so much he finally shoves you off, laughing and calling you stupid but with tears in his eyes. He was smiling, though, and it was in his gorgeous eyes.)

You don’t get it. You know he isn’t a virgin. He’s not shy about wanting you. He knows you want him but he doesn’t do it. When things become too much he leaves. You hate that he leaves but he does. He always comes back apologetically, with a soft kiss and some sort of gift- often food- to appease you. You just want to know why.

He tells you everything, anything else that you ask, but when you ask _why won’t you sleep with me? Why won’t you have sex with me? Why won’t you let me even touch your dick? Why won’t you just let me see you with your pants off?_ He clams up. He sits like the tightest lipped fucker you’ve ever known. You can’t even tell if its embarrassment or shame or shyness or guilt or anything.

You, Dave Strider, are in love with this impossible and weird and fucking stupid troll and you’ve never done anything more than make out with him. You want to know _why._


End file.
